


Of Thistles and Weeds

by miilky



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Freeform, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miilky/pseuds/miilky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A king may rule the kingdom, a queen may dominate the board, but a heart may blind them both, leading the kingdom to ruin. The Newspaper Club returns, and Kyouya finds the worthy opponent he never asked for. </p><p>Disclaimer: I do not and will never own OHSHC. I do own my characters and the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Thistles and Weeds

_"Spare me your judgments and spare me your dreams/Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams."  
_ Mumford and Sons,  _Thistle & Weeds_

Classroom 24B groomed third year students in their potential final year of English. Students in the classroom sat quietly, patiently with their hands folded resignedly on their desk while their eyes collectively peered at the chalkboard where their instructor conducted his duties to the best of his abilities.

Their progression through the academic system obliged the students in learning the general and sometimes advanced levels of the foreign language. A moderate portion of the students in attendance had grasped the language to its highest degrees, and others, although misunderstanding several grammatical rules, had developed a sturdy comprehension of its patterned style. As it was, no student had yet to fear for their grades, and the class'  _text_  was studied vigorously.

"Himura-san, may you recite this passage," asked the instructor.

Attentiveness, or a lack thereof, wasn't the problem, but she had, admittedly, mentally wandered off. Having been brought unexpectedly to the present, she stood quietly, and stared at the page below. Her resolve to maintain her dignity, as well as pleasing her instructor, hardened, and she tightened her hands on the leather cover's sides.

" _The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as gentle rain from heaven, upon the palace beneath, it is twice blest. It blesseth him that gives and him that takes,"_ her rich tremor smoothed the confidence that didn't reside fully in her heart, unfettered, she continued,  _" 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes. The throned monarch better than his crown; his scepter shows the force of temporal power."_

Satisfied, the instructor removed his penetrative gaze off her and onto the rest of the seated class, "Very good, now, may someone explain its meaning," pacified, she flattened her dress and its skirts against her legs as she returned to her desk.

Class enjoyment swayed depending on the subject, teacher, and atmosphere. It was neither high nor low on average days, and often lied in a temperate medium. Sometimes, she sat engrossed in the discussions the instructor led, and others, she fought over the reasons behind her placement,  _Every student should take English, I guess. Four years isn't enough._ Her sentiments might have humored certain ears had she been willing to speak them aloud, but wisdom told her to keep her silence, saving her insolent thoughts for a rainy, private day. In the meantime, she obediently listened to the long-winded lectures, completed sporadic quizzes, and occasionally faltered in the persuasive land of imagination.

Imagination nudged her frequently to where the journal hid underneath her textbook; on blue-lined, once clean sheets, were hastily written words and numbers in purple ink. She kept her head raised, aware of the cross eyes stirring casually in her approximate location, but whenever it was possible, her eyes dipped on the paper, greedily rereading what she'd written earlier. It was difficult to forget what was written in the interval of the class' start and its end. Unlike the rest of the purple ranged page, this date and its accompanying event was underlined in red, and circled repeatedly with roughly drawn arrows striking it.

* * *

"You should pay more attention in class."

She scoffed, "And you should pay less attention to me."

Ayame straightened her glasses, "When you make it less obvious then I might consider it." Her wavy hair bounced as they walked in the student filled halls, and she coughed distractedly into her hand.

"I recited what needed to be recited, and I did it well." Spurned by the observation, she carried her books loosely and pouted, her boredom peeling on her face as it peeled in class. There were no false pretensions on whether the instructor had seen it or kept a nonchalant position on inactive students, " _The Merchant of Venice_  is hardly a boring read, challenging, but it is redundant, having to read it again."

They passed the second floor library, "Scolding you on your academics is pointless, I suppose, but for the club's sake, upholding your academic duties as well as position is vital."

"Along with my sports, familial, volunteer, and physical duties," a lopsided grin slipped on her face, and she chuckled at her companion's prickly puffed expression. Her third year in high school had started as expected, and even in this school some things were bound to remain the same.

Ayame lips thinned, and were readied to combat the response. But she sensed its results and chose wisely not to say anything at all on the matter except, "I imagine you're ready for today's meeting."

"There is no reason to expect this will go terribly," they made a left turn upstairs. Although she spoke casually, there was slight spike in her voice as they walked up the crowded stairs, uncaring of who heard, but still wavering on who might hear. She dug carelessly in her bag, searching for the journal she kept to the bottom for security's sake, "We are not last year's newspaper's club, and they have no reason to refuse us."

"They don't." Ayame said, "We are a clean slate, but that doesn't mean they won't have reservations. The Newspaper Club is an interesting idea, obligatory given the kind of school Ouran is, but our predecessors produced nothing but childish rumors and gossip."

"Nothing but?"

"Nothing but."

Ayame's explanation became backseat noise, and she contemplated her overarching goal. Rumors and gossip, while entertaining on the hot spots, failed to sustain readers, and it'd be disastrous for the student body to be bored, revolted by their news.  _A middle ground_ , she flipped through the pages,  _a middle ground for them to get their daily news and entertainment. This will work. This is a compromise._ Her eyes flickered towards her companion, and she wondered what the club's success meant for her. As close as they had become during the summer, she couldn't guess exactly how she convinced her to join her ranks in this project.

"It is said they  _crossed_  The Host Club."

"Crossed sounds ominous, malicious." She smirked, "And what are we doing?"

She frowned, "We are allying ourselves with them, not starting a school club war." Instinctively, she straightened her glasses, and elaborated their intentions in ridiculously quick prose, never stopping to gasp for air, "In time our club will gain equal footing, independence, and ultimately, superiority over the Host Club. It is only natural for this to occur, I think," her speech slowed, "as the majority of clubs, in a sense, do have a higher productive outcome than this one when it concerns post-graduation endeavors."

Listening to her companion's emotional outburst, she flipped thoughtfully through the pages, and reread what she printed in the late hours of the previous night. Logic prevailed in her notes, schedules, and goals, and assumed this was enough for her to succeed at what she aimed to achieve. But was it superfluous? These charts and maps, writings of what needed to be done and how they would go about? She hastily banished those secondary thoughts, and pinched the underside of her wrist.

Finding the page she searched for, she pressed her finger down on the time table she'd created, "Our disagreement lies in  _how_  this will come to pass, not so much the time it will take for it to happen, and it is in our favor, it seems, that the Host Club's president is an understanding gentleman."

"Suoh-san's chivalry will lead him to agree on any sweet idea," Ayame corrected, admitting lightly that his overwhelming charms did raise their odds slightly, "but he isn't the one we need to persuade. Be prepared for anything he throws at you."

She understood what the advice implied, but the time to fully process its soundness had passed. The Third Music Room door met them in simple elegance, and their worried glances clawed on its surface like hungry dogs. On the other side lied potential failure and success, and failure was resilient enough to pursue them to the grave, mingling with dirt scabbed maggots. Success, or rather its probability, was what they held on to, and imagined the smooth transition of their goals into overarching life objectives. Their trust lied uneasily in this imagining, and tied its threads to ensure it remained grounded. Dreams fled easily.

Their unified sighs traveled down the corridors, and the walls seemed to moan in complaint.

"I'll open the door," she said confidently.

Ayame's lips pressed tightly, as if scolding without the necessary volume and words. She filled the void, repeating what might have been said in its absence, "Impudent, I know, and may serve in us receiving a poor reception."

Technicians reworked an opportunity she refused thoughtlessly in misguided pride, "We'd be like beggars, you know-knocking, but beggars crave pity, they earn pity through their pitiful stations. It'd be nice, beneficial for us to...humble ourselves." Her mind worked rapidly to rephrase her thoughts, to put them in a positive light, and she stared at her companion, searching for approval.

She said nothing in confirmation or admonition to this train of though. Perhaps, she believed this too; tricking man by perceiving themselves as modest, demure, and unabashedly feminine usually worked in their favor.

"Go on, do it," she replied. Three, solid knocks drummed down the halls, and the echoes traveled farther than their weak sighs, more like angrily tap dance shoes.

They coiled in silence, and waited. Yet, nothing happened; no blinding lights, or red roses, or handsome faces greeted them. Just handsome door and its polished wood, and their faces, filled to the brim with curiosity, glanced at each other, unsure of what to do next.

"We set an appointment," disbelief throttled her throat, and her waved curls shook impatiently, flustered at this unintentional slight, "we set an appointment, and they-they snubbed us." She sputtered, and her closed disposition faltered, losing itself in a seemingly fulfilled prophecy.

"Ayame, please, don't hyperventilate," more than a little miffed at this reproach, she was undeterred, but needed to calm her friend before proceeding to Plan B, "my knocks were a little puckish, maybe they didn't hear. Either way, opening the door seems to be our only option."

"But-but-,"

"And standing here won't do us any good," she soothed. Her hand snatched around the young lady's resisting arm, and the doorknob yielded to her determination, tearing at rickety nervousness.

* * *

The Third Music Room was suspiciously empty. It was obvious people had been in the room not too long before their arrival, and the room, always meticulously cleansed to greet visitors, appeared to have been readied even further for their presence.

Suspicious in which it was obvious people had dwelled inside the room not too long before their arrival; the still warm tea cups and saucers rose questions they didn't think would be answered.

"I don't understand," Ayame watched the soft tea ripples as she peered into the cup, "why aren't they here?" The air smelled lavender scented, and the furniture, orderly as it always was, seemed primped for guests. White iced cake was sliced on pink saucers, and napkins were folded neatly beside them.

"It's still warm." She took the cup into her hand, embracing its stinging warmth, and turned to the spacious room, noting the discrepancies. It was hard for her to believe that the room was empty, or was empty out of intent. The careful demonstration set for them attested to something someone didn't want them to know; the tea and cake were placed on a table, seated for four. She returned the tea cup to its saucer, and the pestering frown on her face was thoughtful.

"They were anticipating our arrival," Ayame's eyes narrowed.

Her expression didn't change, "And no one is here." The scenery was flawless in its welcome; the windows were open, air frilly, and a petite table seated for four was set for them with cake and tea well prepared. But no one was seen, or in close proximity to the room. Even the hallway they walked down was empty, and that was a regular occurrence.

This left them in an uneasy position, a terribly bewildering position, and their pointed stares were lost in the brightened music room. With no people in the music room, it was frighteningly still, and the sight made for a mysterious if not haunting sight, despite the brightly lit lights and sunlight pouring in.

"Someone was expecting us," the obvious laid underneath nestling frustration.

She recognized limited options when she saw them, and took a seat at the table, stabbing her fork crudely into the sliced cake.

"Are you giving up?" Ayame opened her hands hopelessly, still searching for a reasonable explanation, not the undeniably thick one lying in front of them, "It's all preposterous."

"Of course it is," she raised the cake crusted fork, and tasted it. Strangely sweetened, the moist flavor lacked the additional flavor that would have made her taste buds cry out in horror.  _He remembered,_ as the substance swam her throat, and she cut another piece absently for a second, third bite, _how sweet of him._

Ayame's hand folded, and their knuckles whitened, "I can't understand what play they're going at," her teeth worried her bottom lip, "cake, tea, their best set, it's like they were getting ready to host us!"

"Maybe he was," she dabbed her mouth with the napkin, and huffed loudly, scoping the room in its entirety, "and then maybe, he was taken away. I don't know, but I'm not leaving until I speak with someone."

Slamming her hand fiercely seemed the appropriate response, and just a little, she wanted to indulge in the cliché. Her fingers trembled as they flattened softly on the surface, and she leaned in the chair, letting her finely manicured nails fall in motion of the endless tapping repetition.

"Masami," the rapping was a constant drum. Her nails dropped one by one in an automatic process, and quickly restarted at the beginning. Like a grand piano's mismatched keys, the tapping flew throughout the room, smothered by its obstinacy.

"Yes, Ayame?" Her eyes flickered here and there, at the readily available entrances and exits, and she lifted her head lightly, setting her pointed chin haughtily against invisible barriers, "You may leave. I don't want to hold you up either."

Opening her mouth in protest, she hadn't realized the amount of time wasted in the third music room. Her cheeks burned in shame, or embarrassment, and she slumped discreetly on the velvet cushioned chair. Slim shoulders, terribly pointed, deflated, and she clutched her head in humiliated pain. Trial and error was the safe plan, and in spite of considering the potential outcomes of the plan, it had been a good one.

Its reality and its imagination were two separate entities, and one didn't lessen the pain of the other simply because one was realized while its counterpart was left in a hypothetical plane. Its piecing blow left her wanting to become nothing more than soapy foam, and in it, nothingness to be taken by the great waters.

"I can't let you do it alone," she whispered. Her head throbbed, "It wouldn't be right, and we did this together, after all. What sense would it be for me to leave you to this?"

"You're nobler than you appear." Her curiosity smoothed its carving nature as it punched her hard born stubborness. Weeks were spent threading the intricate details, and they balanced the possibilities with their impossibilities. Acceptance calmed then in good time, of what could happen, but their innocence was assured in this, or so they wanted to believe. Their club's pathetically mediocre legacy still shadowed them an entire year later, and what was worse, its legacy was now forcing them to endure a fate even lesser than the last. It wasn't right for them to submit before gaining equal footing to the rest; let the first paper be published, let it thrive, if only temporarily.

So it sufficed to say she wasn't willing to give in just yet; too much rested on their success. Thus, the room's uncharacteristic silence and empty space was tolerated, and she settled comfortably on the chair, disposed to waiting.

"The more I try to make sense of this, the more my head hurts," Ayame groaned, and gently, the teacup and its accompanying cake were pushed to the so that her folder was placed in their stead.

"It's best we refrain from attempting to do so, but I have an inkling of what might be going on here," her nails hadn't stopped their rapping and had, consequently, transformed into a bleak white noise.

This bleak white noise filled the vacancy of animated liveliness. It drummed and demanded, cooing in the lavender scented air, and tirelessly searched for any signs of natural life. It was hard to swallow this bitter truth, and somewhere inside her, she was nestling in a bed of thorns at the very sight.  _Without their help it will make things more difficult, but,_ aiming to soothe her rattled fears, logic offered its helping hand, and her tongue brushed against the back of her teeth,  _a larger audience is needed. A good attraction to bring in readers._ Her nails clicked and clacked faster, streaming her vexation into precisely rhythmic strikes.

Ayame wasn't transfixed, but was caught in the beat, the deafening sound that echoed in the music room. She too was dispelled, more agitated than upset, but she couldn't withhold her disappointment either. But due to her less connected thought line and that she wasn't as lost in the sound as she might have thought, her senses were open to the tiniest changes in the room, and her ears pricked, twitching when a second sound entered the fray.

She saw her head move in direction to the second sound, and stopped her fingers in a quick jerk, leaving them suspended in the final motion. Their heads bobbed forward slightly, and turned, eyes heading towards the door that had been closed and quiet for the duration of their visit.

Their hearts swelled, and the dizzying headache eased back to where it came. Stress levels lowered, and though both girls were inclined to rise, straighten their dresses, and present themselves as they'd been taught, neither did so. Not in that moment when the closed door remained closed up until its opening.

"I apologize for the delay-," he said and looked up to where the girls sat at the partially vacant table.

Ayame flinched, then the spare tension lingering evaporated, "Ootori-san, a pleasant surprise," and she stood off her chair, flattening her dress to bow lightly.

If not for the door mechanic's faint click his presence would've gone unnoticed until the last second. The Host Club's Vice-President strolled nonchalantly to the table, never once pausing or guessing at what causes this sudden silence to descend in the music room. They peered and scrutinized his long strides, and discovered inconclusive arguments inept at deflating their suspicions.

His knowledge was forbidden to him; in no form of his face would his expressions reveal what he possessed. Although his brow quirked in the coolest fashion and an almost amused grimace crossed his bespectacled eyes, they assumed he was more amused by them rather than the inexplicable absence of his president.

"We apologize for the intrusion," she said politely. And she straightened her dress as he made his final steps, "We knocked several times, and no one answered. We were led to believe you and Suoh-san would be present."

"I was caught by an instructor on my way to the room," he said evenly.

"And we do understand it, Ootori-san, but we can't possibly imagine where Suoh-san might have gone to." Stones were in her stomach, at the very bottom, and she felt heavy, weighted. She also felt light, jubilant; the sight relieved her of many things. His presence, nonetheless, coerced her to question; his transparent pleasantness wasn't at all tangible. One couldn't touch him without getting pricked with frostbite, and she wondered what thoughts he'd captured as his pleasant smile fostered a less than welcoming but interestingly pleasant smirk.

"I suppose you wouldn't be able to imagine." He replied, "It's difficult to imagine anything Tamaki may do unless you're there to witness it yourself."

Her hair bristled and stood erect on the nape of her neck, "School has been in session for nearly a month," she answered briskly, "and I think have seen enough. He's a man of his word, and would be here."

He turned his head to the side, "You are correct," his eyes laid on the tea and cake, one slice half-eaten, and his brow raised wryly at the two girls, resting funnily on the auburn-haired one.

Adamant on refusing his bait, she rolled her shoulders, "And do you suggest we find him or may we proceed without him?" Anger swelled into a shimmering agitation, and antsy for the process to begin, she stepped forward, close enough so that the sharp gray of his eyes shone brilliantly.

"It stands to reason without the club president we cannot further neither agenda," he walked to the table and stared even harder at its contents. He mused what could have happened, and although he didn't show it, she knew the answer lied at his feet like an obedient mongrel.

"Then, may we find him?"

His fingers glided on the table's gold rim, "It won't be more than a few seconds," as if they did know, as if their imaginations had somehow constructed the very solution to their predicament. He walked away; hands cuffed loosely in his pockets, and passed them with wiry, amused eyes glancing towards the back of the room. Sharing a quick, confused stare, the girls followed him eagerly, wondering at what he was leading them to, or rather, they sensed tensely, to whom.

"Do you know where Suoh-san is?" Ayame asked, "He can't be in  _here_."

"And by chance that he  _is_ , then _where_?"

He said nothing. To the back of the door were two doors; doors neither girl had ever seen before. Even Ayame, an infrequent guest to the club, couldn't rightly recall seeing the two doors. This was acceptable; the doors shared the same painted pinkish lavender, floral design as the rest of the room. Concealed perfectly in the room, they seemed to be hidden doors instead of the typical door, and they peered behind his shoulders, each on one side.

"A door?" She scoffed, "Where did this come from?"

"It's always been here." He answered, "Our costume closet. The other door stores our props."

She was about to question further when she saw him move swiftly to the door, closing in the final inches between he and it. Their lips watered in anticipation, and through their mindless eye blogging, there was a noise. A stifled grumble, a muffled shout quickly hushed and tackled down; they thought they'd imagined it, stepping backwards in surprise. But the noise was real, and they waited for his reaction, which disappointed thoroughly since there was none to behold.

In spite of his unreadable facial construction, his voice dipped knowingly, "You have until the count of three, and with him, completely unwrapped."

How surreal it was for the two girls. The door, at last, opened with a loud creak, and appearing out of the darkness, or the presumed darkness were three persons. To the left and its right twin were two red-headed young men (identical to their wicked sly grins) with catlike grins, and in their arms, still partially wrapped in tape, was the person they had searched and worried for. His eyes were wide in frustration, not exactly anger, and tape flashed on his mouth in a decorative shaped 'X.' He struggled when the door opened; fighting against his charming captures.

"Tamaki?" Masami gasped, "What are you doing?"

An obvious question deserved an obvious answer, and yet, she couldn't completely wrap her mind around it. He was bound in tape; it was around his torso, fastening his arms to his sides, and he couldn't respond coherently due to the x-marked decoration covering his mouth.

Kyoya sighed, "And may I inquire the reason for this?"

"Well it's quite simple…"

"We didn't want-," their line of thought seemed to trail off at the sight of them, and they blinked at one another, then to the three people standing in front them, "oh, oh, it seems we goofed."

"You didn't want what?" Ayame asked, " _Us?_  You didn't want us to come."

"Not  _you_  exactly," the twin with his hair parted to the left said, "but the Newspaper Club, we weren't entirely sure who was running it now since its dissolution last year."

"And this isn't the least contrived," Kyoya said. He touched annoyance, then slight amusement, and stepped forward with his arms folded across his chest, "Untie him."

There was no telling which twin spoke first and which one finished, but the girls blinked, staring at the twins blankly. Their minds were at a loss of what to say, or think in the moment of realization, and they flickered between hilarity and audacity. Heeding his words, they did untie him, snapping the tape with convenient scissors; they snapped away gleefully, uncaring at the sharp glare their club present sent them.

"Tamaki, are-are you okay?" Tentatively, she reached for him, and was relieved when he nodded, "You, you still have tape around you, um," she gestured to his mouth, "how are you supposed to get that off him? Is it duct tape?"

"They very best," they chimed.

"It might be in Suoh-san's best interests that we leave it on," Ayame interjected. Despite being a customer, she was flustered at the sight, and fiddled her fingers worriedly, "I don't want to be responsible for unimaginable pain."

"This kind of pain is quite imaginable, Jonochi-san," Kyoya replied.

As requested, the tape remained on his face, and the twins backed away happily, sliding discreetly out of view.

"What?" Masami scoffed, cupping Tamaki's face in her hands, "What is going on? Are you telling me Tamaki wanted us to be here, and you two deliberately contained him for that?"

"When you say it like that," one twin started.

"It sounds villainous," the second finished.

"Because it is," she stressed. She was relieved that he wasn't harmed, but worried for the tape that would inevitably be ripped off his delicate skin. And she was also pleased, knowing he had tried to ease their discomfort in the only way he knew how for the would be meeting. Her anger lowered to annoyance, and slightly flustered with the overplayed but well-intentioned demonstration.

"You were here the entire time," Ayame said.

"It didn't make good to come out. When Tono saw you were coming he finished the final touches, and since he struggled so much we couldn't make it out in time, so we improvised." They sighed and shrugged, proud of their sharp skills, and disappointed at their failure to remain hidden.

"But we didn't know you were the new president," they added.

"I-you, ugh," she pressed her temples and fought down the incoming headache. This would take time, and it would take patience. While unorthodox, they were present and capable of communicating their thoughts to each other and them, "We arranged this appointment under the pretense you'd be available and willing to discuss our offer. No matter the decision you've come to will be respected, and our club will march forward. Now," her calm breaths echoed, "it doesn't particularly matter  _who_  speaks as long as we reach an agreeable consensus of what you intend to do by our proposition."

Her words fervent meanings didn't seethe in her tone; she'd spoke carefully, coolly, with the awareness of being watched and judged. Her eyes bore into each and every single person, and to emphasize her point, she crossed her arms over chest, awaiting their answer. They stared at her, not stunned and not curious, but curiously passive, unmoved and yet moved in some way by her stoic conviction.

Several seconds passed, "Why, if you put it like that," Kyoya said coyly, "then I believe an arrangement to discuss this matter can be made."

Without warning, the neatly typed contract, which she'd spent weeks working on was waved in her face, and his coy smile, broadened, "It seems your contract, as I trust this is what it is, is in fine form," he ran through twenty pages swiftly, "you didn't spare any details of what you want to do, and what you are  _willing_  to do."

She sighed, "Your reputation precedes you, and not just as the  _third_  Ootori boy. I had to match your thoroughness, and couldn't afford to leave any loose ends, loopholes, or ambiguities."

"I had preferred for this to be done in a profession manner," he said with a tight smile, and wasn't inclined to explain his reasons when he handed his copy of the contract, "but the first thing you should learn about this club is that we can be extraordinarily unprofessional."

Quietly, her hands wrapped around the thick stack of papers, and her eyes flickered, knowing every typed word and its order. With a quick glance in his direction, showing her concern over his actions, she flipped to the last page where the signatures were laid bare at the very bottom.

"So…," seeing the finely scrawled characters and letters, her heart quaked soundlessly, and she breathed, shoulders rising in validation, "you have agreed to this contract, to its conditions, and abiding agreements?"

"Mmf!" Tamaki stood in their middle, and waved his newly freed hands, " _Mmf, mmmf!"_

"Oh Tamaki," she chuckled, "do you agree too?"

"Mmf!" His yellow blond head bobbed excitedly, and he clasped his hands in joy, "Mmoof!"

Ayame's cheeks, naturally and often pale perceived, flushed lightly, and she straightened her glasses, regaining her voice after several minutes of silence, "Suoh-san, Himura-san, I see you two are bonding, as you should, but we do have much work to get done before the day's end. I presume you and Ootori-san have signed the contract?"

"They have," eyes swallowing the finely written signature proudly, and the thin lipped look she gave her confirmed their expectations.

"Mmyaammf!" Long arms enclosed around her, and immediately stiffening, she leaned forward and dismissed the strength of his cologne, awkwardness of his height, and the tightness of his hold.  _It is a time for celebration, I guess,_ face buried in his shirt, she couldn't stop the smirk rising on her lips, the triumphant gleam of her smile.

"Thank you,  _Otouto_ ," after their snuggled embrace, she looked into his violet-blue eyes, and saw bubbly tears sprout at the corners. She laughed at him, as she had when they were small children, and patted his lowered head comfortingly, "Now, now there is no reason for tears. We saw each other just a few minutes ago."

An incoherent babble, but she assumed he was simply happy for her, as he should be.

Kyoya watched, unperturbed, "As touching as this is, we must prepare for our customers." A shadow descended with his approach, and they shivered, sensing the darkness carefully restrained within.

"Agreed, we have our own work to do," Ayame said.

Masami nodded, "You're right. There's still the Debate Club, Chess Club, Photography Club, Theatre Club, Kendo Club, Karate Club, and etc.," there was an exceedingly ridiculous amount of clubs available at Ouran. But she reasoned this was only natural, being an incredibly funded private school that nursed the future generation of the rich, famous, and overly financially secure. She couldn't argue any points on that, even their excessive indulgence, and so, she detached herself with a sweet smile aimed at Tamaki, whose puppy wounded expression succeeded in catching a giggle out of her.

"Now, now, there's a lot of work to do, Tamaki." She patted his hand comfortingly, "And you have a lot of customers, so we'll leave for now, but we will return."

"As stated in the contract," Kyoya said.

"As stated in the contract," Ayame repeated.

Contentedly, they departed from the third music room, and in the background heard the ominous,  _"We'll have to take that off you, Tono, can't serve customers with a taped mouth!"_  They thought nothing of this, believing it was childish banter between brothers, as The Host Club's closeness was widely known and gleefully accepted.

But several meters away from the room, in the great hallway's center, behind the door an atrocious howl scattered, and smacked their heads like an iron hammer.

"What was that?" The haunting howl faded in the distance, "Sounds like a wolf."

"I don't know what it was, but it sounded painful," Masami said. She was absent-minded, not all together present when the sound entered, and this was understandably since she'd apparently lost interest after the first second. Having the initial jolt fade, she returned to the recently signed and returned contract; her eyes were glazed in avid concentration.

There wasn't time to ponder the sound's origins. Their favor was promising, they believed, with The Host Club's blessing. An nontraditional club, its numbers were shockingly stiff, or not as shocking as some believed. The school's female population was tremendous, and these handsome young men catered specifically to them. It was for that reason alone why their blessing was required, with their sponsorship too.

They walked down the hall, she and her, and they didn't think twice of the pained howl that had escaped them, just the opportunities suddenly open to them.

* * *

Applying skin ointment around Tamaki Suoh's mouth wasn't how Haruhi planned to spend her club activities, but she decided it was in her best interests to refrain from asking any unnecessary questions.

"I am going to assume it's something I have no place in knowing," she said, and reached into her shopping bag, when the Host Club President hurried to her, in painful tears.

He flinched at her touch, and happily accepted. Strangely quiet as she worked, she was relieved restraining him wasn't a necessity. And for his lightly blushed cheeks, she blamed the spring's heat and change in temperature; every time his eyes quivered left, right, and anywhere but in her general direction she reasoned it was due to the lingering stinging pain. It stand to reason that she needed to work quickly, as their customers would arrive shortly, and the Host Club President couldn't possibly tend to his dutiful ladies in the state he was in.

"Tamaki-senpai, are those mosquito bites?" Satoshi asked, his dark eyes alight, "They really look like mosquito bites."

The animated, dark-haired young man, the spitting image of his stoic driven older brother, peered over Haruhi's shoulder interestingly.  _Ah, he's really overheated,_ noticing the crimson spots on his senpai's cheeks,  _maybe I should get him some water?_

"Satoshi, don't interrupt Fujioka-senpai while he's working," Yasuchika said off the couch.

"But Tamaki-senpai looks really hurt!" Or his hurt was greatly exaggerated; at the very least, the redness was starting to go down, along with the swelling, "It isn't mosquito season, is it?"

Tamaki's eyes peeked over his blonde bangs, "No, Satoshi-kun, it isn't mosquitoes."

"Then what…"

"I believe what the Boss is trying to say is that he was a little bit tied up today." One of the twins, it was hard to tell, appeared to their side, and though Satoshi doubted that, he didn't say anything contrary to his senapi.

As Haruhi was neither their senpai or their junior, she was excluded, "What do you mean by that?" Keener than the average highs school student, she wiped her fingers on a napkin and stared at them.

Large eyes, lined in creamy brown, and their pure quality caused the twin to flush hotly, and he scratched the back of his head nervously, swiping at his own befuddled feelings, "Can someone just tell her the news?"

"The news?" Suddenly, Tamaki brightened, and he flashed upwards, eyes glittering stars, "Yes, the news! Haruhi, you're going to meet your  _Oba_  soon!"

"My what?" Caught in his overwhelming embrace where she was too tied to do anything in protest, "Tamaki-senpai, you're not making any sense! I already have an aunt!"

Yasuchika closed his book, "I believe he's speaking of Himura-senpai. She came to the Karate Club two weeks ago."

"Oh? You mean Daichi-kun's big sister!" Satoshi brightly added, and he nodded, "Himura-senpai came to the Kendo Club too; Daichi said she's reviving The Newspaper Club."

"More like she's already revived it," the twins said in union, "she came by to finalize a contract she and Kyoya set up."  _Without telling us,_ they sneakily added, but kept that piece of information to themselves.

Still latched in Tamaki's embrace, Haruhi looked to the Vice-President seated at his desk, and noted the calculating texture of his glasses; yes, the sun reflected onto them quite nicely but also menacingly as well.

Haruhi shivered, "But I don't get it? Why she's my oba? She isn't a member, is she?"

Hikaru shook his head, his grin splitting further, "Well, no, she's working on an arrangement with a good chunk of Ouran's club, but she's your Oba because…"

"Tamaki's your dad, and she's his older sister," Karou snickered.

 _Older sister?_ A moment to pause and think; a moment to pause and remember, for she knew Tamaki Suoh was an only child. That was what she was told, and hadn't been proven otherwise. She would've remembered a mention of a second child, or the sight of one too.

 _Himura…_ she looked at Tamaki's face, and titled her head, "You never said anything about an older sister."

Tamaki twitched, realizing this information hadn't yet been relayed to their most precious club member, "Ah, that's true, I haven't. You see we don't get to see each other often, and ever since my father and her mother divorced…"

"Oh!" She pushed him away and breathed. What she knew and was starting to know connected, and her frustration eased, "I get it now," she pounded her hand lightly into her open palm, "she's the daughter of your father's first marriage."

" _B-I-N-G-O!"_

There were other questions she was ready to ask, that had risen with her revelation, but whatever they were, were clutched down in the twins' demonstrations and Tamaki's theatrics.  _"Auntie, auntie, Haruhi's getting an auntie,"_  they chanted like children, and she was in their circle as they frolicked, eyes grating on each singing member.

She'd known intuitively that she'd be dragged into whatever conflict there was, wittingly or not, and there wasn't much to say then except sigh and cock her head lowly, exasperated by their antics and relieved the first customers had finally arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this years ago under the original title, "Catch Me If You Can." It was written during my high school years, and was poorly written. I do like to think I've improved since then, and the idea never left me. Two weeks ago I got on a run with the anime and manga, and discovered the live-action drama. I returned to the story and the notes I had written for it. It's a lot of fun fleshing out the characters I've only played with in my mind and notes. Other characters from the series, minor and not, will be making major and not so major appearances, so thank you.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!


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